


The Tell

by bonestilts



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF, Scottish Actor RPF
Genre: Confessional Sex, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 15:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19112137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonestilts/pseuds/bonestilts
Summary: Whether he’s aware of it or not, Richard Madden has a tell.





	The Tell

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically just shameless smut tbh so,,, sorry if you're not into that. but uh madderton has ruined my life atm and i had to write this
> 
> (this hasn't been beta'd because i dont have any madderton moots but i pray any errors dont throw you off too much)

Whether he’s aware of it or not, Richard Madden has a tell. 

And it goes completely unspoken, it’s not anyone’s duty to go about telling him what he does when he’s mentally planning how he’s about to _get some._ But Taron won’t deny that the urge to let it slip is constantly on his mind. It shouldn’t be constant, but Richard makes it bloody well hard for him to push it away when _he’s_ the one Richard’s subconsciously (or possibly not) planning to take home one of these nights. Richard hasn’t said anything about it; but that’s the thing, isn’t it, he doesn’t need to explicitly _tell_ him, instead he shows it.

And through what? Well, Taron’s been studying his mannerisms for a year this coming August. Which isn’t creepy, it’s a natural thing to do— or maybe, a pastime for Taron. Sets can get boring, it’s unbelievable, having the opportunity to smoke a ciggy with arrogant but stupidly interesting A-Listers, but expectable. So, Taron took joy in observing his co-workers; their nervous fidgeting, giddy body language, signs for an upcoming bad mood, concentration faces, pursed lips and faraway stares that couldn’t mean anything else but _‘definitely not listening to you right now’._

Whilst doing this activity of his, Taron began to notice the reoccurring flirty behaviours coming from the people he worked with too, most commonly the one and only Richard Madden. Blue-eyed hunk, soft plump lips and a voice that ran like silk between two fingers; the epitome of beauty, really. At least that’s how Taron saw it, not that he was anyone to judge. A few years ago he was devastatingly hooked onto Colin Firth, who had at least two decades worth of experience ahead of him. _Experience_ , that’s what Taron had blamed his fascination on back then, the need to admire someone.

What bullshit that proved to be, huh.

He’d first noticed Richard’s _flirty tell_ in September when his assistant was replaced with an astonishingly, good-looking young man by the name of Matty. Not a name Taron would usually go for, but sure as hell one Richard would, apparently. There was something off-putting with the way they interacted with each other, Taron ruled out his jealousy because he was in his mid-twenties for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t new to that silly game anymore. But it had something to do with the way Richard’s face remained animated while he spoke to Matty.

It wasn’t uncommon for Richard’s facial expressions to shift around a lot when he’s excitedly talking. Pause, let that sink in, unleash the detective skills. To reiterate; it’s not uncommon when he’s talking _excitedly,_ and although Taron will admit, it is very exciting to be working on a movie based off Elton John’s life, no one in their right mind is excited 24/7. Especially not on the _Rocketman_ set, which comes with an endless amount of responsibilities and muscle tension. 

So, for Taron to watch Richard’s eyes light up whenever Matty came around with his long black and packet of cigarettes, it was pretty damn clear that he found this _kid_ exciting. That didn’t sit well.

Next was whenever they went out. Taron’s sole intention was to get absolutely annihilated and forget the fact that he payed such close attention to how Richard communicated with the people he met, instead even those nights were ruined. Taron couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop noticing; the tongue between a set of teeth while Richard giggled, the constant nod down as if needed to recharge his charm for a moment before looking up again through long, dark lashes. The way Richard couldn’t set his hands still, nails and dead skin needing to be picked at as if the sight before him was too good to be true, he just _had_ to distract himself. 

The worst part was that after three more months of mentally noting down all the things Richard does to let the other party know he _wants them_ , Taron finally figured out that he wanted to be on the receiving end. He wanted to sit facing Richard and watch him react that way to him, to apply those tells on him and hope to God _he_ gets the hint. Instead of some sleazy girl who’s most likely gone down on half the men in their bar, or the far-too-young assistant who’s pretending to be gay so he can report to the press that Richard Madden likes cock. Scandalous!

Either way, Taron would much rather that Richard’s romantic and sexual attentions were on him. As selfish as that sounds, but he’s sick of constantly being on stand-by. And it wasn’t easy, to realise midway through shooting that Taron felt one with his character. At least in some senses, like the fact that he, deep down, dreaded the end of any intimate scenes he shared with his male co-star.

Take their first take on the sex scene for instance. It’s hardly acting when he lets out a quiet hum through his breathing once Richard’s lips first make contact with his, it’s a natural response, especially after having a portion of air knocked out of him from Richard’s death grip on his collar. 

What _is_ acting is Taron’s decision to continuously stare down at Richard’s lips while he speaks, to take a quick nip at the tip of his thumb when the skin brushes against his agape mouth, to sound breathless and flustered; though Taron’s beginning to doubt _that_ bit’s fabricated either. 

But one can’t hide from their mind, they can’t act away from their own feelings and thoughts within, they can present themselves differently to others and fool them; but Taron can’t pull the faking trick on himself. So he knows full well what’s going on when his body yearns for the scene to continue, for Dexter to call cut and shoo the filming crew off set, leaving him and Richard alone. And he’s never experienced that before.

It’s not like he’s new to kissing men, though. He’s certainly not new to kissing Richard either. They don’t do their final take on the first go, a director would be crazy to do that. Instead there are number of run-throughs, which means practising their sex scene, otherwise there’s space for uncertainty and Dexter’s been pretty clear that every last moment of the intimate scenes, down to the very second, needs to be choreographed. This means that Taron’s rolled around on that bed, shirtless, with Richard at least four times now. And each time it’s a larger struggle to keep his excitement under wraps.

What’s new is the fact that when Taron looks down at Richard’s plump lower lip, glistening with _Taron’s_ saliva, and despite cameras rolling and at least thirteen other people watching from behind screens; Taron wants nothing more than to recapture the pillowy flesh between his own teeth and _suck._ He doesn’t remember that stage direction being in the script.

It’s damn well hard not to give in, to move his head forward a few inches and open his mouth against Richard’s, who’s there, looking down upon him with fire in his eyes, looking very much like he wants to do the same — except that he’s acting his part. And Taron would be a liar if he said the feeling of Richard huffing hotly against his face didn’t turn him on, or that the roll of his accent when he’s speaking quietly to him, boom mics lowered dangerously close, didn’t send blood down south faster than any bullet train Taron’s ever seen.

It was a risk, to feel attraction towards your coworker, Taron knew this. He’s familiar with the horrible sinking feeling one gets when they’re legitimately aroused during a sex scene. God, he knows. And it’s the worst thing in the world, but for some reason Taron’s calmer with the fact that Richard just so happens to be the one flicking his switch; it could be because they’re close, or maybe that they’re the same gender and _he’d understand_. Either way, he’s not panicking. If anything it’s exciting for Taron to feel these things when Richard’s pressed close, grinning slyly as he works at Taron’s belt. 

It hit him the hardest during the third month of shooting, when Dexter was hellbent on getting all the steamy moments out of the way so stylists could change up the hairdo — a decision Taron had been dreading; the Shaved Hairline. Out of excitement or possibly sheer stupidity ( _or_ method acting, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves), Taron let all restraints go out the window. It began with Richard forcing his back against the closet panels inside, Taron has a mere second to let out his breathy semi-moan before Richard’s mouth is atop his. Taron doesn’t even notice his body reacting, let alone the movement of his mouth fiercely playing with Richard’s, because he’s too distracted by the _sound_ of them together. 

The loudness of Richard’s hands running up and down Taron’s shoulders, gripping at fabric and wrenching it sideways as if he couldn’t wait any longer to get his calloused palms gliding over smooth, warm chest. The smack of their lips against each other’s, it’s wet and Taron can hear Richard’s harsh breathing and _fuck_ — it’s almost like Taron’s acting this scene out for the first time all over again. The closeness of Richard’s face with his, the dull feeling of having his nose touching Taron’s cheek, to have his thighs pressed against his own, desperately trying to slot their way between but lacking the space.

He was afraid to admit it then, but he was most definitely hard.

Times have changed now though, the movie has premiered. Richard has placed his hands on Taron’s hips far too many times on carpets, and Taron’s indulged and let himself press kisses to his dear friend’s forehead. All is well and Taron is _absolutely not cataloguing Richard’s tells, still._ Who can blame him? For one, he’s been forced into Richard’s hypnotising presence for an entire year now, that must be a valid excuse for falling in love with the man, and two, they’re scheduled to parties every other night, to sell the damn movie. Which means Taron must stand beside Richard as he openly flirts with an assortment of fancied up women, and occasionally behind walls, men too.

Taron finds it hard _not_ to pick out when Richard licks his lips at a certain moment, or glances down at people seductively while he takes a sip of his dark Guinness, or, for God’s sake, decides it’s appropriate to grip their knee under tables. 

Then it took him another week to realise that on the best days, Taron does happen to be the person Richard’s testing his skills on. Whether it’s mere practise, a piss take, or a legitimate _tell,_ Taron supposes he’d surpassed the fact due to blinding jealously and his (once) strong belief that he was nothing but heterosexual. Wow, times really _do_ change, huh.

That realisation is exactly why he’s asked Richard to pop into his hotel suite after the Sydney premiere after party. Taron’s, embarrassingly, the type to check the mattress bounciness and that all folds of the duvet are neat and tidy, he doesn’t want anything to curse him. There’s no other time like the present.

Richard doesn’t so much as knock, but yells at Taron’s door when he arrives. “Open sesame!” 

“Didn’t know you were one with magic.”

Richard steps in, gliding past Taron and already off towards the minibar where the alcohol is kept. Taron notices that he isn’t drunk yet, which is a good sign but still gives Taron a whip of disappointment. There’s no more excuses for him to hold off. 

“Magic?” he laughs dryly, “I dunno about magic, thought that shit was from Sesame Street or something.” Richard rattles the fridge door when he opens it, and hums to himself as his fingers tap at the tiny caps of all the miniature bottles.

Taron walks behind him and sits on the foot of his bed. “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”

“Huh?” he’s still deciding on which liquor he wants to chug.

“That’s where it comes from, it’s a magical story about treasure in a cave. ‘Open sesame’ is the phrase the thieves use to open the cave up.” Taron’s rambles, passing time before he pops Richard’s comfort bubble. His palms are clammy when he rubs them over the covers, he shouldn’t be this nervous. He’d imagined this confrontation a billion different ways before, planned out which expression to pull at what time, how smoothly to deliver each line. But he’d never been able to predict Richard’s response, and that makes him jittery. “See, you _do_ know magic.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll show you magic.” Richard teases, turning around and bumping knees with Taron suddenly. Their closer than either of them had expected, the walkway between the bed and minibar surprisingly narrow for such a large room.

“I bet you will.” 

Richard accepts the challenge easily, he grins down at Taron while unscrewing the cap from the Vodka he’s finally picked out. “You’re feeling rowdy tonight, huh. Fancy any of those done-up ladies outside, T?”

“I may have eyes for one,” Richard nods slowly, inviting Taron to continue. He tips his head back to swallow the clear, burning, liquid. “But they’re not a lady. Well done-up, though.” Richard’s movement falters, he’s clearly caught off-guard by Taron’s confession. But Taron keeps it going, sliding back onto his elbows so he can look at him from a lower angle, spreading his upper body along the bed. 

“A man, then?” he asks, hand still hovering by his mouth, eyes slant and suspicious. 

“Mhm.”

“Well done-up? So…” Richard doesn’t pivot, but he does reach his hand behind him to put the empty Vodka casing down. It’s unbalanced and the clatter against the top of the fridge makes Richard’s shoulder jump slightly. He’s on edge, eyeing Taron thoughtfully. “A cross-dresser?”

Taron laughs heartily, fingers already moving towards his buttons to undo them. The position he’s laying in applies pressure to the fabric in ways that his sponsor wouldn’t appreciate. “I’ve never known you to like cross-dressing.”

“I don’t.”

“Then no.”

It takes a good moment for it to sink it, but when it does Richard’s mouth flies open, stuttering, “M-me?” Taron notices that his ears have already reddened, the first of many tells in a situation Taron’s all too comfortable being an observer for. This time he gets to be apart of the fun.

“You know damn well.” 

Richard’s feet are glued to the floor, but now his bottom lip is caught between his teeth and he’s nibbling at it anxiously. It’d be hard to pick up on if one lacked Taron’s impressive eagle eyes. He’d been so painfully aware of these _things_ that Richard does when he’s playful, or aroused, that it’d almost become a religion to think about them morning and night. They couldn’t escape him even if Richard tried his hardest to hide how his body decided to openly convey his interest. “I don’t know, don’t — what are you on about?”

“Your tells _,_ Richard.” Taron sits up suddenly, sliding his ass closer to the edge of the bed so his knees are pressed against Richard’s fully.

“My what? My _tells?”_ his pitch has gone up, he’s entered the hot water. The hot water of reality and most importantly, truth.

_Don’t act oblivious, you sexy son-of-a-bitch._ Taron mentally retorts. “The shit you do when you want someone, _really_ want someone.”

“I honestly have no clue what a… a tell is.” Richard’s accent has taken over fully now, whether that’s from booze or his own panic, but Taron’s drowning in the urge to keep him yapping on so that he can continue listening, but he can’t drag it on forever. “Listen, I—“  


Taron sighs, putting his hand up abruptly and shutting him up. “I don’t want to waste more time. I’ve been watching you for a while now and it’s been, how do I put this… you’ve been fuelling my sexual frustration. Right? And that’s tiring, so to put it simply; I want to fuck you.” Richard’s eyebrows hit the roof. Taron soldiers on, eyes up at his friend. “I’ve kinda pulled a Sherlock on this one and deduced through your _tells_ that you might want that too.” Richard doesn’t speak, which gives Taron time to offer the only other possible solution to their situation, “Or, if you want, we could forget—“

“No!” Taron’s eyes widen with shock, the corner of his lip upturns slowly. Richard coughs, “Erm, I mean, no. No, don’t forget.”

Smiling, Taron tilts his head back to bare the length of his neck, flirtatious. “Don’t forget?” he says teasingly.

Richard shifts his weight, his knees are still touching Taron’s and he’s awfully aware of the contact. “T, you’re not taking the piss, are you?”

Taron’s suddenly moved by the insecurity in Richard’s tone, “Of course not, mate. I mean this.”

“Then…” Richard slides his knees forward so that they’re leaning on either side of Taron’s thighs, digging into the mattress and adding to their combined weight, he places his hands over the coarse suit covering Taron’s shoulders, “then yes, please. I would like that.”

And he says it so sweetly, so innocently like he hasn’t been dreaming of it in his trailer since last year, “You bastard—“ Taron growls, and grabs hold of Richard’s blazer lapels and pulls him back quickly, propelling them both back towards the headboard. Richard yelps when his torso collides with Taron’s. “We’re finally going to do this for real, no more rolling around with cock-socks on, sick of that shit.” he says hurriedly, already making work at his pants. Richards joins in with an, admittedly, adorable giggle and knocks hands with Taron’s as they shimmy out of their trousers.

“I believe the top half usually goes first,” Richard comments with a smirk. He already sounds a bit out of breath and Taron happily assumes that’s due to his apparent arousal, and he’d be a goddamn liar if he said that didn’t turn him on more. An overly excited Richard Madden in a rush to get naked with him — what a life to be living. They’re stuck in their tight boxers and Taron’s lost for a moment as he stares down at the thighs lying atop of his, clad with soft black material, and he almost thinks he’s been hallucinating this entire thing. 

“Yeah, well, we’re not usual. And I’ve been dying to see your bottom half again for an entire year now.” Taron wraps a hand around the back of Richard’s neck, drawing his face closer. The Scot is trying his hardest to stay balanced whilst also not putting his entire weight on Taron, out of kindness, so he wobbles forward on one bent elbow beside Taron’s ribcage. “I think I deserve this.” he whispers onto willing lips.

“Not as much as I do.” Richard accepts the kiss hungrily, sighing softly as Taron repetitively opens his mouth up against his. It’s not like the movie, Taron discovers, kissing Richard genuinely. There’s more passion, more need as Richard surges forward over and over again, re-angling his head every few failed pecks so he can delve deeper into Taron’s moaning mouth. _He wants tongue,_ Taron decides hazily, and welcomes the heat of Richard’s against his own. A sound comes from deep within Richard, guttural and almost animalistic, then he’s taken Taron’s tongue captive, sucking on it and creating obscene noises that sends a blush high upon Taron’s cheekbones. 

“Gofh,” Taron curses, unable to shape his lips around the letters for Richard now _owns_ him. Taron’s scratches bluntly at the curly hairs by his nape, sliding one hand deeper into the mop of dyed beauty to tug and pull, and guide Richard’s head so that Taron can be blessed with devouring his mouth as well. He pulls back, noses bumping, “get my shirt off right now.”

Richard moves in a flurry, hands swiping up against Taron’s shoulders so to unwrap the stiff blazer from his body, then he quickly undoes his shirt buttons. “Oh, my.” Richard murmurs, looking down upon Taron’s chest.

“Thought you might have a fascination with my chest.”

Richard doesn’t even smile, he can’t take his eyes off the sections of individual muscle, and more importantly, his erect nipples. “Was I that obvious?”

“There were the occasional out-of-character moments, but I doubt Dex noticed.” he grins back, knowing full well that he already looked wrecked; eyes glazed over, mouth wet and glistening. But he didn’t think he looked anywhere near as bad as Richard did. He looked frenzied, lips utterly destroyed, swollen and red from the fierceness and sheer desperation of their kisses, his hair was a complete mess, sticking up crazily where Taron’s fingers hard carded through, he had a shiny tongue trail across one cheek where Taron must have slipped up and gone a bit mad. It made him chuckle.

“What are _you_ laughing at?” Richard smiled, his eyes having snapped back up to meet Taron’s. 

“You look…” Taron’s mind filtered through all the possible insults, but he decided against it, he felt so joyous in this moment he couldn’t stand the thought of lying, even for the sake of comedy. “You look incredible. Gorgeous, so fucking beautiful, Rich.” Richard’s stare softens, all at once his whole face relaxes and he looks five years younger. Taron felt his stomach stir at the sight, reminding him of the task at hand. “Now hurry up and do something before I confess any more.”

“Yes, sir.” Taron moans without a trace of thought behind it. “ _Fuck_.” Richard’s peaceful expression immediately shifts to that of someone deeply aroused, and Taron forces himself to prefer it that way; attached strings are complicated. He leans down and takes Taron’s nipple between his teeth, all the while striping away at his own blazer and shirt so that they were both left in their undergarments. 

By this point, Taron lifts his hips up off the mattress to grind against Richard’s crotch, who bows his head and rests his forehead against Taron’s pec so to pant encouragements of “more” and “please, T,” which Taron supposes can only lead them to the next step. Through bared teeth he manages to ask, “Am I— _God, Richard—_ do you want me to prep you or— _yes, ah—_ you know how?”

“I know,” he pushes down against Taron, slotting their cocks side by side through their boxers and rocking, he keens loudly and Taron thinks he’s about to pass out. Richard’s gradually proving to be too much for him to handle. “ _Jesus_ _fucking Christ—_ where’s the lube?” Taron almost doesn’t understand him, the lilt of his accent too foreign for him to comprehend, not with all the blood rushing in his ears; heart beating madly. 

“Top drawer, quick mate.” He hears, rather than sees, Richard rustle around with an outstretched arm, learning across his chest again, but still keeping the rhythm going with his gyrating hips. His stomach flips again, “No really, _quick._ Dunno how long I’m gonna last, Dicky.”

Richard’s harsh exhalation startles him, he thinks it was intended to be a laugh. “That’s not supposed to be a turn on, not in this scenario, but _fuck, T.”_ his hips jerk and Taron knows from the way Richard’s body reacts to his own movements that it was entirely involuntary. 

“You get off on me calling you pet names?” Richard pops the cap and squirts a generous amount onto his bent fingers, he’s breathing fast. Taron smirks beneath the heat of his face, he lengthens his grind against Richard, “What about— you got one of them praise kinks? Huh?” Richard shifts so that he’s sitting up, his thighs bracketing Taron’s hips and he puts one hand down against his chest for stability, fingers spread eagle, kneading through the light hair. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare attempt words and Taron guesses what the result may sound like; broken syllables accompanied with a mix of deep grunts and whines. An arm disappears behind his back, out of Taron’s sight and it drives him to experiment. “Look at you, doing so good for me. You should see yourself, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Suddenly Richard’s grounding down erratically, Taron can only assume it’s the finger in his ass he’s pleasuring himself with because their cocks are no longer touching. He’s whimpering through an open mouth, eyes almost shut but still trailing on Taron’s face. He’s _living_ for it. “Be a good boy and add another finger for me, Dicky.” A moan rips from Richard’s throat, his bicep flexes in intervals, Taron can only imagine the sight of his long fingers, longer than his, plunging past the rings of muscle over and over. “Nice and deep for me, baby.” That does it apparently, because despite it being only a minute or two, Richard half collapses onto Taron’s torso and pleads into his feverish skin for Taron to just ‘fuck him already’. 

Taron doesn’t need to be asked twice. “Bunch up,” he rips off his boxers and settles a hand on each of Richard’s hips, who’s rid of his own piece of clothing and is now hovering over Taron’s swollen cock. “You right, love?” Richard nods hurriedly, his bottom lip bouncing with the movement and Taron almost exercises his core strength to kiss him into oblivion one more time, but instead, “I need words, Rich.”

Richard makes the face again, the soft one, as if he’s surprised by Taron’s undeniable care and affection for him, and there goes Taron’s stomach again. It’s almost as if he’s legitimately in love with this man and would very much like to ask for his hand in marriage. Hah, that’s odd. _Shit_.

“Yes. Please, I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

Taron nearly chokes. “It’s weird to hear you speak like this.”

Richard’s lowering stops, “Sorry, want me to stop?”

Taron grip on his hipbones hardens, fingers digging into deliciously pale and untouched skin. “Fuck no.” He guides Richard down onto him, and in less than a minute Richard’s already shuddering with need forTaron to move. His hands are pushing down against his chest and his back is bent forward, Taron looks up at his face to see Richard’s eyes screwed shut, lower jaw jutting out to accomodate for his slow breathing. “Alright?”

Richard opens an eye, already beginning to smile, “More than alright. Can you, just—“ Taron speaks for him with a lift of his hips, he sinks into Richard completely before drawing back out, then repeat. Richard moans, pushing down in time with Taron and wiggling around a bit. “Harder.” Taron growls at the request, bucking up fast and inviting the way his upper thighs slap against Richard’s behind. Richard’s head is bowed, fingers scratching at the redness of Taron’s skin. “ _Harder_.”

“Fuck sake,” Taron grunts, he lifts Richard off him by the hips before flipping him suddenly so that his back is against the mattress and Taron looms above, “I’ll give you harder, love.” Richard’s eyes are blown wide, pupils gloriously dilated and forehead sheen with sweat. He makes a surprised high-pitched noise before Taron wraps his wrists around the backs of his knees and brings his calves up to his lower back. “Remind you of something?” Taron smirks. They’re mimicking their position from the movie.

“Sure does, the embarrassment of realising you made me hard in front of thirty people.” Richard rubs noses with Taron, “Now get to it lassie.” 

But Taron cocks his head and looks down at him with raised eyebrows, “I made you hard?”  


“As a rock,” Richard curves his body up off the bed so that his fuzzy tummy presses against Taron, cock head hot and sticky between their skin, “ _please_ , stop teasing me.” 

Taron snickers, closing the gap between their mouths and taking Richard’s tongue into his. He pushes his hips forward and drinks all the noises that escape Richard. He pumps into him quickly, noticing the way that Richard’s body inches up the bed bit by bit with the force of his thrusts. Richard’s spine goes rigid and he cuts through the first few layers of Taron’s shoulder skin with bitten off fingernails, his head is thrown back, giving Taron full access to his neck.

“Do— _oh, Jesus, Taron—_ do that again.” 

At the sound of his name Taron vigorously pushes into Richard again, and he’s rewarded with the same response. A writhing, whimpering mess of a man having his prostate massaged by a very fortunate Welshman’s cock. He bites carefully at Richard’s neck, letting him draw out his broken moans as he punishes the small bundle of nerves, making sure to drag himself almost all the way out before slamming back in, sending shockwaves throughout Richard’s warm body. 

It doesn’t take long after the discovery, for Richard to cross his ankles over Taron’s ass and force him closer, to bury himself deeper while Richard trembles with the effort of coming. He’s not as loud as Taron’d expected, instead of screaming throughout it he only let a single incomprehensible shout before his voice gave out completely and his face burned red, neck veins prominent and accepting of Taron’s exploring tongue. Then it didn’t take long after _that,_ for Taron to groan deeply, burying his nose against a shoulder as he continued to shallowly pump into him, hands stuck between the mattress and Richard’s ass cheek.

The sound of paced breathing fills the space, and Taron slides out of Richard to flop beside him, arm flung over his chest and leg thrown carelessly over one of Richard’s. Taron reaches for the spare pillow that fell on the ground and takes the cushioning from its case, he then moves closer to wipe at their mess, leaving the material on Richard's thigh in case he wanted to make himself more comfortable. He does, hand burrowing between spread legs and Taron forces himself not to watch. He's not a pervy teenager anymore, although thats's what he'd have liked himself to believe, ignoring the amount of minutes he wasted on set trying to determine Richard's length before their robes were thrown off.  Taron relaxes back against the mattress, turns his nose towards his friend and watches his handsome side profile through squinted eyes. He's smiling softly up at the ceiling and Taron hates the way the sight makes his throat tighten.

“You breathe like a dog.” 

Richard turns to stare at him, he’s trying to look mad, “What?” 

Taron’s tricked into laughing and it comes out all high and wheezy. “You sound— you breathe like a dog,” he giggles into Richard’s shoulder, who’s now opened his mouth in faux disgust.

“No one has ever said that to me before.” Taron rolls over to his left, covering his face with his arm, “Stop laughing!” Richard smacks him on the elbow, but Taron can hear the humour in his voice and it stupidly only makes him chuckle harder. 

“It’s a compliment, take it as a compliment,” Taron urges, tilting his head back to smile widely at him. “It’s cute.” Richard visibly melts, the look’s back but this time Taron lets himself drown in it. He surveys his face and reminds himself that he was the one to cause such an expression; of acceptance, comfort and, hopefully, a bit of love too. 

“You think I’m cute?” It’s gentle and Taron feels like he’s floating. 

“I think you’re a lot of things,” he lifts his chin against the pillow so he can still watch Richard through his heavy eyelids, “cute is one of them.” The room shifts and sleep grips at Taron’s core, pulling him down under the surface, he feels so good in this moment.

“T?”

He hums, drifting off.

Richard laughs quietly through his nose, “Photocall at nine tomorrow, I’ll be here.” and sits up for a moment so he can rip the covers from underneath Taron’s naked body and place it over both of them. “And for the record, you’re cute too. Adorable even.” he murmurs into Taron’s hair, body curled around his. Then after a moment of silence, “Unbearably sexy with those hot pants on, Lord—“

“Sleeping, Richard.” Taron drools onto the sheets.

“Sorry, sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> im buzzing with ideas and im (embarrassingly) hooked on this ship, so tell me if u want more from me. ive got fingers and an imagination and im ready to put them to use


End file.
